


up for it

by veryniceandgood



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:28:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5030131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryniceandgood/pseuds/veryniceandgood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In general, Harry has never been scared of going after what he wants. Never had a reason to be really, at least when what he wanted was a girl. But everything is different with Zayn. If Zayn was just another girl, Harry would be texting Zayn to come over whenever it struck his fancy. If Zayn was just another girl, Harry would be able to ask for what he wants whenever he wants it, without even thinking twice. The fact that he’s too scared to just unlock his phone and do it says all too much about his humiliating over-investment in this… whatever this is. Secret getting-off-and-not-talking-about-it club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	up for it

**Author's Note:**

> Everything is 100% fictional, including the timeline, since I don't actually know the actual timeline very well and twisted what I do know to fit my own purposes.

It starts in America, one humid, New York night. Harry’s hair sticks to his sweaty forehead as they're bundled into a van waiting outside the club by several members of their security team, camera flashes going off from every angle, photographers shouting their names. He feels blind, wild, blood racing with adrenaline. They're underage in America and someone had tipped off the press. Photographers had started showing up, hoping to get a picture of them with a drink, stumbling over their own feet, with a girl (especially since the news of Zayn and Perrie’s romance has surfaced), anything. One Direction were new, exciting, shiny, and the world couldn't wait for a chance to knock them back a bit.

Harry and Zayn were pulled off the dance floor, practically by their ears, whinging like the children they very nearly still were. But there was no help for it. The photographers knew they were inside, and they weren't going to leave until Zayn and Harry did. They left behind at least five different women who almost certainly would have gone home with them, who had danced tight and dirty against them, breathed in their ears, put their hands in their hair. Dazzling, slim, perfect New York women with big tits, shining hair, tiny dresses, and high, dangerous-looking heels. Women, not girls, who may have had something to show a couple of novice British pop stars back in their posh hotel rooms.

From the other side of the bench seat in the van, Harry can feel Zayn practically vibrating with frustration. His hand is set at the edge of the seat, clenching at the upholstery.

“We were _fine_ ,” Zayn finally spits out as the van pulls away from the curb. His eyes are wild and the tail lights of the taxi cab in front of them wash his face in red, rendering him, for an instant, unrecognizable. No one responds.

“No one was going to let them _in_. We were _fine_.” Zayn is wasted like Harry's rarely seen him before. Even in his own inebriated mental state, Harry registers how Zayn's voice is rising, accent thick. How his eyes aren't really focusing on anything, how an angry flush is darkening his neck. He wants to reach out, to cover Zayn's hand with his own, to feel the same restless, frantic energy he feels inside himself buzzing under Zayn's skin too. But he stays on his side of the seat, teeth gritted and hands fisted in the hem of his own shirt to keep them still as the van continues on toward the hotel.

“This is fucking _bullshit_ ,” Zayn hisses.

He earns himself a sharp glare from the driver, but no one responds. Zayn huffs out an irritated breath and sinks back into his seat with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes narrowed. Harry knows what they must think of them, these grown men tasked with keeping him and his bandmates safe and (possibly more importantly) out of the tabloids. He’s sure they must seem like spoiled, coddled children, and maybe that’s what they really are. But what he doesn’t think these men can understand is the way it feels for them, on the inside of the cocoon so carefully constructed around them. Harry is grateful for the life he’s been handed, loves it most days with an intensity that scares him sometimes, makes him want to grip onto it with everything he has, lest somebody try to take it away from him. But on nights like tonight, he understands all too well the feeling of an itch with a scratch denied, the impotent frustration when the walls close in.

Harry tentatively reaches across the seat to rest his hand on Zayn’s shoulder, his fingertips just barely grazing Zayn’s neck above the collar of his shirt. He feels Zayn relax by a fraction under his hand. He darts a glance over at Harry and gives him a short, rueful eye roll before shrugging him off. Harry’s not offended, he knows what Zayn’s like when he’s upset. Sometimes he wants to be cuddled and fussed over, sometimes he just needs to disappear inside himself for a bit. Harry pulls his hand back into his lap and tips his head against the window to watch as the lights of the city pass them by.

When they arrive at the hotel’s service entrance after a tense, silent drive, Zayn follows Harry up to their room without a word, stoic until the door latches behind them.

He throws himself across Harry's unmade bed on his stomach, digging his fingers into his hair.

“Fuck,” he growls, scrubbing his hands against his scalp and pressing his face into the mattress, destroying what's left of his artfully crafted quiff. He lifts himself up onto his elbows, looks sideways at Harry, who is standing awkwardly by the door, still a bit lightheaded from the drinks, unsure of what to do with himself now, unsure of what Zayn wants from him. “It's been fucking weeks. It's not fucking fair. Those birds were the fittest I've seen in my _life_.”

Harry lets out a deep breath. He understands Zayn completely. In a whirlwind of shows, interviews, and appearances they'd barely had a single night off in a month. Any time they did have was invariably spent on the busses, being shuttled from city to city, obligation to obligation, the rest of the world and all the people in it held at arm’s length. It seems cosmically unfair that they'd been wanking themselves raw every night when there were hundreds, probably thousands, of girls out there who wanted them now. Who would feel lucky, even, to have them.

Harry's mind drifts back to the club, to the woman who had pressed her perfect, round arse against him and writhed to the thumping bass, running her hands down the length of her own body, the shiny lacquered red of her nails glinting against the black of her dress. He replays the feeling as she glanced at him over her shoulder, grinning wickedly and licking her lips when she felt him getting hard. Shit. He's getting hard now just remembering the pressure of her, grinding in sinuous circles against his dick, all the things he thought he was going to get to do with her. Unconsciously, he reaches his hand down to rub at himself, seeing the way the lights danced in her hair behind his eyelids.

He's brought back to the present by the sound of Zayn clearing his throat softly, by the heavy feeling of Zayn's eyes on him.

Zayn flicks his gaze down to the obvious bulge in Harry's jeans before meeting his eyes again. Harry is too drunk, too worked up, to laugh it off with any degree of success right now so he doesn't even try. He pulls his lips into his mouth and stares up at the ceiling, shifts his weight uncomfortably, fighting the urge to turn away, to cover himself with his hands, to ask Zayn to kip with Liam tonight so he can just pull himself off in peace.

Because he doesn't actually want Zayn to leave, not really. Harry's always hated coming down from nights like this by himself. Can't stand it alone- the transition from flashing lights to darkness, sweat cooling on his skin and silence ringing in his ears. Always wants to end the night with a warm body pressed against his. If he can't fuck, he at least wants to feel the heat of somebody next to him, and he's never much cared who the body belongs to.

He takes a deep breath and looks down to meet Zayn's stare, sees that the corner of his mouth is quirked up, recognizes that curious, speculative look in his eyes. Harry knows that look, has seen it so many times before. On girls at clubs or in the crowds at their gigs, on Caroline Flack, on a flight attendant on one exceptionally memorable trans-Atlantic flight. That look says “I definitely shouldn’t, but maybe I will.”

Harry likes that look.

Zayn blinks his big doe eyes slowly, and seems to make up his mind about something. He cocks his head to the side, rests his temple against his fist. “You're quite pretty, you know. For a bloke.”

Harry can feel the blush in his cheeks, blood hot under his skin. He realizes he hasn't spoken a single word since they were pulled out of the club.

“Not as pretty as you,” Harry shrugs, flicking his fringe out of his face and pulling brutally at his lower lip. He’s aiming for cheeky, but worries he’s landed somewhere closer to yearning.

Zayn lets out a sharp bark of laughter, then brings his hands to his mouth, as if he's surprised himself. Harry grins back at him helplessly, feeling some of the tension between them bleed away.

Zayn giggles drunkenly as he rolls over onto his back, his head hanging off of the mattress. He throws his arms over his head, toward Harry. His movements are bigger, looser than they normally are.

“You really are, though,” he says. “You're pretty. Pretty hair, pretty eyes, pretty mouth. You're pretty, Harry.”

Zayn's voice is thick and slow, teasing but sincere. Harry is still half-hard and he ducks his head, hiding his eyes behind his fringe even though Zayn isn't looking at him anymore. Zayn’s face is turned upward, eyes closed.

“Come here, pretty boy.”

Harry's head snaps up.

 

*****

 

They rub off against each other through their pants that night, jeans pulled down around their knees, Harry lying heavy on top of Zayn's narrow frame, the friction almost too rough between them. Harry's never done this with another bloke before, but it comes almost as easy as it does with girls. They don’t even kiss, just breathe hotly against each other’s necks, grunting and gasping. They find a rhythm that suits them both within minutes and before Harry's had a chance to properly process what's happening there are sparks flying in the darkness behind his eyelids. He can feel Zayn’s hips stutter beneath his, and knows that he’s coming too.

Pleasure sings through Harry’s veins, so sharp it’s almost painful, and he can’t resist rutting against Zayn a few more times until the sensitive, stinging hurt is twisting low in his belly and he can’t take it anymore. Zayn groans loudly beneath him, completely wrung out.

Harry lifts his head from where it’s pressed to Zayn’s shoulder and their eyes catch. All it takes is a sly, sleepy grin from Zayn, and then they’re both laughing. As if this is the funniest thing that's ever happened to anyone, the best prank they've ever pulled off. They laugh themselves breathless, shaking with it, until it finally tapers off and they lie there, eyes locked on each other. The adrenaline that had gotten them here dissipates and they slide into sleep without even cleaning up, pressed against each other, damp and overwarm, in the middle of the bed.

 

*****

 

Harry wakes up alone the next morning, sticky between his legs and cotton-mouthed, his head aching in retribution for the unnaturally colored shots he'd taken the night before. In a cosmic unfairness, the sliver of bright morning light streaming in from the crack in the curtains is aligned directly with his sore eyes.

He’s groggy and slow as he rolls over to press his face into the pillow that still smells like Zayn’s Gucci cologne, but he remembers. Even though he can barely believe it really happened, he remembers everything, every hot, desperate moment, and he's nervous, unease bunched in the muscles tight under his skin and swirling in his gut. At a great cost to his aching head, Harry glances over at the other bed, but Zayn is gone. Zayn sneaked out without waking him up. Zayn's probably somewhere showering the smell of Harry off his body. Probably disgusted, probably thinking of last night as a drunken mistake or worse, a joke.

They had laughed last night but that was different- it had been the both of them together, giddy with release. Harry feels a hot spark of shame deep in his gut as he drags himself out of bed and toward the bathroom. It doesn't stop him from wanking in the shower, images of the way the soft lamplight had illuminated the planes of Zayn's face last night as he writhed beneath him after he came flashing unbidden behind his eyes. It doesn't stop him, but he kind of wishes that it would. It’s embarrassing, even with no one there to see.

Harry has himself worked up into a proper state by the time he heads downstairs for bus call, leather duffle slung over his shoulder, brows furrowed behind his sunglasses and lips pursed. It was Zayn's idea anyway, Harry was just going along with it! Doing _Zayn_ a favor. Zayn was the one who had been calling him pretty, the one who had pulled Harry down over him, yanked and shifted with his freakish, wiry strength until they were lined up just the way he wanted them. Harry had wanted it, desperately actually, and more than he cared to admit, but still. Zayn had no right running out on Harry in the dead of the night when he was the one who started it.

Harry stomps onto the bus, shoulders past Louis wordlessly on his way to the back lounge. Louis makes a offended sort of sound as Harry passes by, but Harry steadfastly ignores him, not in the mood to have his nipples twisted or his hair pulled. Zayn is already in the lounge, looking utterly at peace stretched across the sofa, X-Box controller in his hands. Harry drops his bag and sets his hands on his hips stroppily, staring Zayn down over the tops of his Ray Bans.

Zayn pauses the game and gives Harry an exaggerated once-over, licking his lips lasciviously. His face breaks into a goofy smile, eyes crinkling and tongue pressed up behind his teeth and Harry feels his heart float into his throat and then he can’t help it- he's grinning too, arms dropping to his sides, heat draining from his face.

He throws himself onto the couch beside Zayn, snuggling up against him with a sigh as Zayn loops an arm around his neck and picks up his controller, goes back to his game. Easy as that. Neither one of them says a word all the way to New Jersey.

 

*****

 

Zayn comes to Harry again two weeks later, after a show in San Diego. Their hotel is surrounded by mobs of screaming fans. They all know there's no chance of escape tonight, no way to get out and release that anxious, buzzing adrenaline that always lingers after a show. Probably no chance of sleep either, with the noise coming from the crowds outside. Niall had tried to convince Harry to come over to his room for a film, but Harry had shrugged him off, feeling the hot itch of _something_ in his bones. He knows he'd be shit company tonight, jittery and weird, and he doesn’t want to have to explain why. Two weeks, and Zayn hasn’t acknowledged what happened beyond a cuddle and a smug grin. Two weeks, and Harry still doesn’t know if there’s any chance of it happening again. Two weeks, and Harry’s wanted him every single night of it.

He's barely back in his room, toeing his shoes off moodily, before there's a knock at the door.

He opens the door with a sigh, expecting it to be Niall making another attempt to entice Harry with a viewing of The Avengers or something, and is rendered dumb with shock when it's Zayn.

 

*****

 

The weird thing about Zayn is how _normal_ he's been acting since that night, the night they held each other as they came together in Harry's bed. He's just as open and affectionate with Harry as he's always been, slinging his arm around Harry's shoulder during interviews, pinching his cheek during his solos, poking his dimples when Harry laughs at some dumb joke Liam tells. They fuck around onstage, chasing and grabbing at each other like they always have, but if Zayn is feeling the same sharp new undercurrent of arousal at every touch that Harry is, he isn't letting on. He isn't letting on and he isn't coming to Harry's hotel rooms, even when Harry has so generously and casually positioned himself in the room next to Zayn's night after night, hotel after hotel.

A couple days after it happened, a Canadian bird had interviewed them and told them how much all their fans wanted to see them kiss each other. Harry could could feel Zayn’s eyes on him as he nonchalantly asked the interviewer if she was serious, but he was too scared to meet Zayn’s gaze.

Harry's pulled a couple girls in the interim, and he knows Zayn has too. Harry had furtively wanked one night actually, listening to the muffled thump of Zayn's headboard against their shared wall. There's a feeling that simmers there, somewhere behind Harry's clenched teeth when he comes over his own hand. It's not jealousy, he doesn't think. Or at least not the jealousy he's used to. He doesn't mind Zayn getting off with someone else, that's not really it. He thinks maybe he's just curious, just wanting a chance to try it out again. Just wanting some kind of sign that Zayn wants him too.

And it's not like Harry's spent every night pining, or anything. He's young, good-looking, famous, and very nearly _too_ charming. He's had a good time with the girls he's met- a great time, actually. In Chicago he met a short, curvy pharmaceutical rep at the hotel bar who let him take her back up to his room so he could go down on her until she was practically crying, then fuck her from behind, hands tight on her hips. But in the back of his mind, even as he lost himself in her cunt, he couldn't help but remember how Zayn had ripped his shirt open onstage that night and then licked his lips and pinched at Harry’s hip. Couldn’t help but hope that Zayn could hear her moans now, hope that it made him feel... something. Anything. It was a bit sick, but he couldn't help where his mind went when he was brainless. And increasingly, his mind was going to Zayn.

On the nights there were no girls, Harry couldn't help it. Couldn't help remembering Zayn's pink cheeks, his slow smiles, the way his cock felt, thick and hard and snug up against Harry's through their pants as he rocked against him. Couldn't help but picture more, picture Zayn on his knees in front of him, his lips stretched wide around the width of Harry's cock, pretty as any girl Harry'd ever seen.

Couldn't help but imagine going to his knees for Zayn himself, even though he's never done it before, has never even gotten a hand on a cock that wasn't his own. Hasn't really considered it as a possibility at all, actually, not since his every move had started being documented on Twitter.

But he wants to see every perfect inch of Zayn, wants to follow his eyes with his fingers and his tongue, wants to make him feel better than anyone ever has before. And Harry is sure that he could, if only Zayn would give him a chance. He could learn. He could be so good for Zayn. On the nights there were no girls, Harry comes with his hand around his own cock and Zayn's name on his lips.

 

*****

 

Harry is frozen, silent in the doorway until Zayn flicks him in the chest and says, “It's a bit rude, you know, leaving me standing here in the bloody hallway. Why are you being so weird?”

Harry shakes his head, chagrined, and shuffles backward. “Come in, you twat.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows as he walks into the hotel room, letting the door shut softly behind him, then flipping the latch.

“Twat?” he asks as he passes Harry on his way to the couch, “Is that what you call people bringing you presents?”

Harry’s heart is fluttering, giddy in his chest, and he takes the opportunity to drape himself over Zayn's back and nuzzle his face into his neck. Then, because he can't help himself, he flicks the tip of his tongue against the soft skin behind Zayn's ear, feeling the stud in Zayn’s ear scrape against the side of his mouth.

Zayn squawks and elbows Harry away from him.

“Oi!”

Harry smiles sheepishly and straightens up, puts his hands behind his back. “Sorry. You said something about presents? Is there something beyond your... presence?”

Zayn groans loudly. “God, Harry. I don't know why I bother. Truly.”

But all the same, he's reaching into the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out a plastic baggie with two tightly-rolled joints and a hot pink Bic inside, and tossing it to Harry.

Harry's eyes light up. It's been _ages_.

 

*****

 

They settle on the couch together, no music or TV, just the sounds of their own breathing, of Zayn's voice low in Harry's ear, urging him to hold the smoke just those few moments longer, of Harry's coughs, muffled into his shoulder. They get about halfway through the first joint before Harry is brave enough to ask for a blowback. After that, it's not long before Harry is feeling even braver, licking his lips, looping his arms around Zayn's neck, and pulling him in for a proper snog, their lips sliding wet together. As Harry is gearing up to try a bit of tongue, Zayn pauses, starts giggling against his mouth. Put out, Harry pulls back and folds his arms across his chest, afraid he’s completely misread Zayn’s intentions.

“ _What_?” he demands petulantly, trying to mask the tremor of fear in his voice.

Zayn bites his lip, trying to stifle himself. He reaches to cup the side of Harry's face in his palm. “Aw, babe, don't be like that.” He laughs again, “Just the first time I'm kissing another bloke, innit? Your beard, like... it tickles a bit.”

Reflexively, Harry strokes at his jaw, relieved but still pouting. “Don't have a beard.”

“Well you've got more going on than most girls do! Here,” Zayn runs his thumb over Harry’s jutting bottom lip soothingly and brings the joint back to his own mouth with his other hand. “Let's finish this and we'll try again.”

Placated, Harry allows Zayn to hold his face in his hands and inhales the smoke Zayn blows in a narrow stream into his mouth. He focuses on the purse of Zayn’s lips, the way they’re just the slightest bit chapped. He wants to feel them on his mouth again, that perfect mix of rough and sweet.

By the time Zayn is finally stubbing the roach out in the bottom of a drinking glass, Harry is feeling antsy but heavy-limbed, too worked up just by Zayn's proximity, the feeling of his palms on Harry's cheeks, the way the lamplight catches on the flecks of gold in his eyes. He feels warm all through his body, buzzing with electricity. He pulls hard on his lower lip, trying to calm himself down before Zayn turns his attention back to him.

When Zayn's eyes meet his again though, something has shifted. There's something hungry in them, intent. Something Harry hasn’t seen there before. He feels goosebumps erupt across his skin as Zayn leans toward him and presses his hands to Harry’s face, thumbs digging in on either side of his mouth. He brushes his lips against Harry's softly, holding himself back. The touch is so light it's almost ticklish, and Harry strains forward against Zayn’s hands, desperate to deepen it. Zayn growls deep in the back of his throat and pushes Harry backward until he's shoved up against the arm of the couch, mouth opening for the slick slide of Zayn's broad tongue. Harry's knees fall apart and Zayn settles between them, sliding his fingers into Harry's hair, _pulling_ , and Harry moans.

This is different. Kissing Zayn isn't like kissing a girl. Kissing Zayn isn't like kissing anyone. His lips are full and soft and wet and his tongue- it's clever and hot in Harry's mouth and it feels bigger, like it's more work to push against it with his own. Harry fucking loves it. He whines as he feels his cock filling out, pushing his hips shamelessly up against Zayn's. In the back of his mind, he thinks he should be embarrassed about letting Zayn see him so desperate, but the worry is overpowered by the haze of weed and the feeling of Zayn, hot and solid above him.

Zayn sinks his teeth into Harry's lower lip and grinds down against him. Harry is gratified to find that Zayn is hard too, that he's not all alone in this. He squirms and Zayn pulls back abruptly, staring intently into Harry’s eyes, holding himself up over Harry with one arm.

“Got something I want to try,” he says, slightly breathless. He scratches his nails across Harry's scalp, makes a fist in his hair, and Harry shudders with pleasure.

“You up for it?”

Harry nods vehemently, savoring the sting where Zayn still has his hair wrapped around his hand.

“Anything you want,” Harry replies, feeling brave.

Zayn continues to stare at Harry, searching. Harry makes his best effort to look like whatever Zayn's idea of “up for it” is.

Zayn releases Harry's hair and rolls off the sofa. Harry already misses the pressure of Zayn's hip against his dick and he thrusts a little, involuntarily, against nothing. Zayn notices, gives him a sharp little grin.

“Up. Take off your clothes and get on the bed.”

Harry nods again, frantic, almost makes himself dizzy as he launches himself off the couch. He strips off quickly, not bothering to try and make a show of it; it's not like Zayn's never seen him take off his clothes before. He leaves his shirt and jeans in a heap on the floor and falls, spread-eagled, onto the bed.

Harry's eyes are closed and he’s breathing deeply. His awareness of his body is heightened to such a degree that he can feel the breeze of the air conditioner, gentle as it brushes past every hair on his legs. He can feel the weave of the soft linens beneath him, can already feel the tip of his cock, untouched and leaking, peeking out of his foreskin. He reaches his arms over his head to keep from touching himself, arches his back off the mattress, points his toes and feels the delicious stretch all the way down his body.

"Very pretty, Harry," Zayn says approvingly from where he stands at the foot of the bed. "Now keep your eyes closed and hold still."

Harry ought to be a bit nervous, blind and vulnerable on the bed. But he's not. It's Zayn, and it's him, and even after two weeks of uncertainty, it doesn't feel scary.

The mattress dips as Zayn settles in beside him. Harry keeps his eyes closed, clenches his fists and drags them against the upholstered headboard. The material is thick and rough, Harry imagines his knuckles going red and raw against it. He shudders as he feels Zayn drag a single fingertip across his bare hip- already so desperate for it.

“Legs apart a bit more- yeah, perfect, just like that. Keep your eyes closed, don’t move.” Zayn’s voice is quiet and firm as Harry scrambles to obey. Zayn continues tracing circles on Harry’s hip as he climbs over his leg to settle between Harry’s spread knees. Harry can feel the soft drag of Zayn’s sweatshirt on the insides of his thighs and then he can feel Zayn’s breath on his cock.

Harry makes an embarrassing keening noise and hears Zayn let out a low chuckle. “It’s okay, babes. Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of you.”

He keeps his hands on Harry’s hips, pinning them down to the bed. Harry wriggles against Zayn’s hands, testing his limits, and earns himself a sharp slap on the inside of his thigh. Harry’s dick twitches, and he knows how obvious it must be, right in Zayn’s line of sight.

“Still,” Zayn says, low and firm. “Stay still.”

Harry is still buzzing under his skin, and it takes everything he has to keep his fists against the headboard, to keep his body pressed down on the bed when he feels Zayn’s hot breath at the side of his cock again. When he feels Zayn drag his dry lips over the head, his eyes snap open and he cranes his neck to see Zayn kneeling between his legs, head bent.

Zayn glances up and catches Harry’s eye, lets out a huff of impatience.

“Eyes _closed_ , Harry. I’m not going to tell you again.”

Harry drops his head back again and closes his eyes obediently, if a bit sulkily. Watching, to him, is one of the best parts of getting head- and Zayn wasn’t even going to let him see.

His disappointment is forgotten as Zayn runs his tongue along the side of Harry’s cock, a warm, wet glide. He moves slowly, tentatively, trying Harry out. Harry clenches every muscle as hard as he possibly can to keep from moving, his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip. He knows this is Zayn’s first time trying this, and he’s terrified to risk doing anything that will scare him off. Harry doesn’t ever, ever want this to end.

Zayn’s mouth disappears with no warning, and Harry holds his breath.

When he returns, one long moment later, Zayn is relentless, all his previous hesitance gone. He envelops Harry halfway down in one go, coming back up with a wet suction that makes Harry feel deranged with pleasure right down to his bones. He manages to keep still, barely, but it feels like every cell in his body is straining toward the soft, slippery heat of Zayn's mouth.

Zayn is sloppy with it, but slow, and he’s driving Harry absolutely mad. Zayn pulls his mouth away every so often to run his tongue gently over Harry's thighs, his balls, the soft slope of his belly. He strokes the flat of his fingernails up the side of Harry's shaft and Harry's eyes fly open before he can help himself- he catches a glimpse of Zayn, still crouched on his knees between Harry's thighs, staring at his hand where it's flying up and down Harry's cock. Zayn's eyes are glazed, his mouth red and wet.

Harry slams his eyes closed again, not ready to come yet.

But it's a fruitless exercise, the image of Zayn and his wrecked mouth burns behind Harry's eyelids and he comes, maybe harder than he ever has before, over Zayn's hand.

Once the stars stop bursting behind his eyelids, Harry looks up to find Zayn sitting back on his calves, raking his eyes over Harry’s spent body. He sticks his hand, still wet with Harry’s come, inside his joggers. His eyes don’t leave Harry’s as he starts pumping himself inside his pants. Harry is too drained to pout, even though he desperately wants to see.

He can tell the moment Zayn comes, he loses his rhythm and his hips punch forward, the tendons in his neck straining against his golden skin. He collapses forward, holding himself up on one forearm over Harry. He drops his head down and rubs his lips over the center of Harry’s chest. Harry brings his hand down to the nape of Zayn’s neck, rubbing gently in the soft hairs there.

After several breathless moments, Zayn heaves a great sigh and rolls to the side to lie flat on his back next to Harry. He pulls his hand out of his joggers and grimaces. “I’m disgusting. Gonna go clean up- do you have a spare pair of pants I can borrow?”

“Sure, yeah-” Harry lifts up onto his elbows like he’s going to get up to get them, but Zayn sets his hand on Harry’s shoulder authoritatively. “No, stay. I’ll get them. Just stay right here.”

Zayn rolls off the bed and plucks a pair of pants out of Harry’s duffel bag with his clean hand. He heads for the bathroom, leaves the door open so Harry can hear when he turns the tap on.

Harry is having a hard time keeping his eyes open by the time Zayn gets back with a warm, damp flannel, looking flushed and gorgeous in just Harry’s small black pants. He wipes Harry down tenderly, carefully, like Harry’s skin is made of something fragile. Harry can’t help but sigh under Zayn’s ministrations, stretching his arms luxuriously over his head.

“Mm, thank you.”

Zayn snorts and flicks Harry in the nipple. “Show off. And I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

Harry grins in satisfaction, rubbing at his chest. “You did.”

Zayn tosses the flannel back toward the bathroom and eases himself down onto the bed next to Harry, their arms pressed together, their hair mixing on the same pillow.

“Next time you're taking your clothes off too,” Harry murmurs sleepily against Zayn's shoulder. He can feel the gentle shake of Zayn's laughter and then he's drifting, pulled under into a dreamless sleep.

Zayn is gone when Harry wakes up, but this time Harry isn’t surprised. Zayn smiles sweetly at Harry at breakfast, but sits next to Liam. He smirks a bit into his cereal when Harry snatches Liam’s spot as soon as Liam leaves for the gym, but doesn't say anything.

 

*****

 

It takes so long for it to happen again that Harry nearly gives up hope. He tries not to dwell on it, but he can’t help but wonder, over and over (and over and over) again, if there was something he had done wrong. Zayn hadn’t seemed mad or freaked out afterward, no big “does this mean I’m gay?” panic like one might have expected or anything. He treated Harry just like always did, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? Harry doesn’t want them to be like they always have been. He wants them to be more- he still has things he wants to try with Zayn.

Harry has always been a curious person, and now that he has a chance to try things out with another bloke, practically risk free, he doesn’t want to stop. And really who, in the entire population of earth, would want to stop having sex with Zayn Malik once they started?

At least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s just something new, something he’s always wanted to try but didn’t know how to. Once the band took off, he felt that a window had closed, that his chance to experiment was over, because if people found out it would be such a massive, massive deal. Just the thought of having to give statements or interviews about whether he liked shagging boys made his throat close up tight. How could he even know if he’s never gotten to try it out?

Zayn is the perfect opportunity- he’s fit, he’s always around, and he’s got just as much to lose as Harry does. But even as he rationalizes away his heart’s tendency to skip a beat when Zayn touches him, Harry knows that Zayn’s so much more than a good shot to try things out.

Because Zayn is more than just a body to Harry, he’s a full and real and intriguing, and Harry’s thoughts have been consumed by wondering when he’ll have his next shot at making him feel good.

He’s always liked Zayn, felt an immediate bond with him right from the start. They shared in mutual giddiness over the fame, the opportunities, the new lives dropped directly into their laps. The thrill of having the whole gleaming world spread out in front of them.

And Harry likes the way you have to work a bit for Zayn's attention, for his approval. He's intrigued by the way that Zayn seemed to sink into himself sometimes, shutting the world out with seemingly no effort at all and hiding inside his own head. Harry's never really been able to do that himself, but he'd like to learn. Seems like an important skill to have, for people in their position with the rest of the world pressing their faces to the windows of their lives.

But Harry also likes the way that when Zayn's there, he's really there. Having Zayn's undivided attention makes Harry glow, makes him feel invincible, like he can take on anything. On nights when he was sick with nerves before a show, all it took was a touch, a squeeze, a smile from Zayn to light him up and loosen the tight ball of anxiety in his chest.

So Harry wants to grab Zayn and hold on tight, at least for a little while longer. He never even got to see Zayn’s dick. And this, he thinks, is monumentally unfair. Not just because he wants to (although he very much does), but because Zayn got to see his. Got to touch it, put it in his mouth, feel the weight and shape of it, got to make Harry come, and Harry hasn’t been allowed to reciprocate at all. Zayn has seen all of him, and Harry hasn’t seen anything.

It makes Harry feel off-kilter, like Zayn has all the power, like it has to be Zayn’s decision if they kept doing… whatever this is. If Harry were to approach him, it’d be too obvious, Harry showing his hand, making it too important. And he can’t stand the idea of Zayn knowing how much more Harry wants him than Zayn seems to want him back.

So he doesn’t say anything. Jokes and chats with Zayn around the others, keeps it surface-level and light, but never really sees him alone. Sometimes Harry casts searching looks in Zayn’s direction (when Zayn’s not glued to Liam’s side), but he never seems to notice. Or, if he does, to care much about it.

But eventually, finally, Zayn wants him again.

 

*****

 

It’s the middle of the night, somewhere between Dallas and Houston at the tail-end of June. Harry has felt on the verge of dying of heat stroke for something like two weeks, and his bunk is too claustrophobic and stifling for the way he feels like he’s about to burst out of his own skin. The ceiling is too close, the sheets beneath him too damp.

He’s now laid flat on his back on the sofa in the back lounge of the bus in nothing but his pants, his arms stretched over his head. There’s an air vent pointed directly at his face, but he’s still sheened over with sweat, his skin sticking to the leather beneath him. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, but he must eventually drift off to the soothing thrum of the tires racing along the highway beneath him, because he wakes up to Zayn standing over him in a t-shirt and pants, trailing the tips of his fingers through the sparse, downy hair just beneath Harry’s navel.

Zayn notices Harry’s eyes fluttering open and smiles down at him, seemingly overjoyed to have woken him up from his hard-earned slumber.

“Hiya, Haz,” he whispers, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Busy?”

Harry is still a bit sleep-stupid and slow, and it feels like the words he means to say are trapped somewhere at the back of his throat. So he forgoes them altogether, crooking his mouth into a grin and reaching his arms up toward Zayn like a little kid wanting picking up.

Zayn grabs Harry’s upper arms firmly and hauls him into a sitting position. He sinks gracefully to his knees in front of Harry in one fluid motion and Harry, still a bit hazy with sleep, thinks that Zayn probably could have been a pretty good dancer after all.

Then Zayn’s fingers are tracing along the waistband of Harry’s pants and Harry finally cottons on to what Zayn is about to do. He bats Zayn’s hands away, then gathers his wrists in one hand, squeezing lightly.

“I’m pretty sure it’s my turn,” Harry says, his voice hoarse from the aircon.

Zayn lifts his head to meet Harry’s eyes, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Oh yeah?”

His voice is light, teasing. Harry could probably back out if he wanted, he doesn’t think Zayn would be angry or frustrated or anything. But the fact of the matter is that Harry wants this. He wants to try, he wants to see what it’s like, and if he’s being honest with himself, he’s wanted that for a long time. He wants to make Zayn feel good. This feels like his best chance, so he smiles back and says, firmly, decisively, “Yeah.”

He releases Zayn’s hands, and Zayn clambers up onto the sofa beside Harry. Harry scoots back, assessing Zayn’s position. He’s wracked with shivers of adrenaline, tinged with anxiety, and tries to cover it up with a bit of false bravado.

“Lie back,” he orders.

Harry tries to make his voice as authoritative as possible whilst still keeping quiet. He’s terrified of one of the others waking up and interrupting them, just as Harry is finally about to get what he wants. It seems to work, or at least Harry is being indulged, as Zayn only smirks a little bit as he shifts so that he’s propped up against the end of the sofa, his legs sprawled across the seat toward Harry.

Harry gazes at him consideringly, his lower lip tucked between his teeth. He takes in the way Zayn’s navy blue pants stretch across his thin thighs, the way his oversized Hulk t-shirt is bunched up a bit, enough to reveal a sliver of his abs, the gentle definition Zayn’s been so proud of lately.

“Shirt off, I think. Please.”

“So _polite_ , Harry. I like it.”

Zayn is grinning still, seemingly drawing confidence from Harry’s awkwardness. He sits up enough to strip his t-shirt off and tosses it across the lounge, where it wraps around a speaker for the telly. He lies back down and reaches for his pants, but Harry clucks his tongue gently, stopping him.

“I think I’ll do that, if you don’t mind.”

Zayn holds his hands up in surrender, then pops his hips up and gestures as if to say, “Have at it.”

Harry starts at Zayn’s collarbones, trailing his fingers slowly downward, over his nipples and stomach until he reaches the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hands and repeats the process, trying to scratch a bit more with his nails this time, until he sees Zayn starting to thicken in his  briefs. Harry has been on the receiving end of not a few blow jobs in his time, and he’s picked up some tricks along the way.

His fingertips catch on the elastic around Zayn’s waist, and he begins tugging them off, as Zayn helpfully shifts his hips up, seemingly eager to move the process along. Harry’s gaze is locked between Zayn’s legs as he uncovers him. Zayn is only half-hard, but his cock is just about as pretty as the rest of him, and Harry is fascinated. He seems a bit smaller than Harry himself, but still a good size. He’s cut and his is skin is a lovely golden pink color, his hair is trimmed down close.

Harry rocks back, finishes pulling Zayn’s briefs down his legs, and Zayn disposes of them with a quick flick of his right foot. Harry leans down, propping himself up with his elbows on either side of Zayn’s hips, just looking at him. He’s never really seen a dick from this angle, and he’s fascinated.

Eventually, Zayn lets out a small huff of impatience and reaches down to tousle Harry’s hair. “Planning on doing anything before I fall back asleep?”

Harry rolls his eyes at Zayn’s empty threat and leans over onto his side between Zayn’s legs so that he can draw the tip of one finger slowly up the side of Zayn’s cock.

There. He’s done it. He’s touched another boy’s dick and, so far, nothing terrible has happened. No gongs ringing in the distance, no howling wolves, no lightning, no thunder. No cameras flashing. Just a small shiver from Zayn. Harry lets out a deep, gusting sigh, and Zayn twitches again.

Harry circles Zayn’s cock with his hand, rubbing at him gently and watching him fill out. Zayn seems to have given up on coaxing Harry into moving faster, letting Harry work his way up to it at his own ponderous pace.

There’s no lube nearby, and Zayn doesn’t seem to get wet like Harry does, so Harry lifts his hand up, offering it to Zayn. Zayn takes his meaning immediately, licking over Harry’s palm several times, then sucking at each of his fingers individually. Every swipe of his tongue goes straight to Harry’s dick, and he can feel himself fattening up where he’s trapped against the sofa cushion beneath him. He wriggles his hips a bit, trying to get some friction, but then Zayn is releasing his now spit-slick hand, and Harry has other matters to attend to.

He wraps his hand around the base of Zayn’s cock and nuzzles his face against it, getting used to the feel of his soft skin, of his musky scent. He pulls back, propped up on his elbows, and drops a tender kiss to the head of Zayn’s cock. He can hear Zayn hissing through his teeth, and when he looks up, Harry can see that Zayn is straining his neck to get a look at Harry’s mouth on his cock. Harry doesn’t mind, he’ll let him watch.

 

*****

 

It becomes a more regular thing then, after that. But Harry, still terrified of pushing too hard and scaring Zayn off with just how much he wants it, always waits for Zayn to come to him. He never initiates anything for himself, even when he’s aching for it.

In general, Harry has never been scared of going after what he wants. Never had a reason to be really, at least when what he wanted was a girl. But everything is different with Zayn. If Zayn was just another girl, Harry would be texting Zayn to come over whenever it struck his fancy. If Zayn was just another girl, Harry would be able to ask for what he wants whenever he wants it without even thinking twice. The fact that he’s too scared to just unlock his phone and do it says all too much about his humiliating over-investment in this… whatever this is. Secret getting-off-and-not-talking-about-it club.

On the surface, nothing changes. Their onstage antics might intensify a bit- Zayn helps rip Harry’s shirt open one night, then a week later pretends to be whispering something to him when really he’s running the tip of his tongue along the shell of Harry’s ear as goosebumps ripple down Harry’s back- but Harry doesn’t think anyone else really notices.

Harry has felt Louis’ eyes hot on the back of his neck when he forgot himself and spent a bit too much time tracing the lines of an oblivious Zayn with his eyes, but Louis probably just thinks Harry is starting off into space like he’s always tended to do. Louis hates when Harry gets like that- distant, quiet, unreachable. Drives him mad. But where in the past he might have launched himself onto Harry’s back, slid into his lap, or just cracked him round the head, Louis mostly leaves Harry to it now. More than once, Harry finds himself thanking whatever deity is responsible for the consistent distraction Eleanor provides for Louis.

Zayn takes every opportunity to tease Harry, and Harry, in the relative safety of the stage, doesn’t mind teasing back. Harry spends most nights with a buzzing under his skin that can’t be extinguished until Zayn feels it too.

But Zayn doesn’t seem to feel the same urgent intensity that Harry does. He’s still technically with Perrie, and they’re both still pulling girls whenever they get the chance. On the nights when they can’t, though, on quiet nights spent on the bus, on nights when the hotel is surrounded and they’ve been given strict instructions to stay put… on some of those nights, Zayn will find him, knock on his hotel room door or pull him out of his bunk to the back lounge, always with something he wants to “try out.”

Some nights they don’t talk at all- just make out until they can’t wait any longer (Zayn hardly ever laughs anymore) and then pull each other off in the hotel bed. Sometimes they grind against each other with Anchorman or The Dark Knight playing low on the telly in the background until they can’t pay attention anymore and trade sloppy blow jobs on the floor. Sometimes they do it in the shower, hands slicked up with body wash or conditioner. Sometimes Zayn traces a soapy finger tenderly along Harry’s perineum and doesn’t even try to act like it’s an accident. It makes Harry’s face go hotter than the warm water can account for, makes the muscles in his torso clench, his dick twitch. But it also makes a weird, liquid panic crawl up the back of his throat. If Zayn ever asked, he knows he’d do it. But he doesn’t know, exactly, what it would mean. And anyway, Zayn hasn’t actually asked for anything. And it’s not like Harry can offer without completely showing his hand. Because he knows he’d give Zayn anything he asks for, or more than that, and the fact of it terrifies him.

At this point, Harry can’t even articulate in his own head what he wants from Zayn, except everything.

 

*****

 

When they get split up for interviews, Zayn and Harry are never put together anymore. Their publicist says it’s because their “energy doesn’t play well on-camera.” Louis says it’s because Harry can’t stop eye-fucking the side of Zayn’s face long enough to actually answer a question. And when he does, it’s usually just to confirm that if Harry were a girl, out of all his bandmates, he would want to snog Zayn the most.

Harry doesn’t think Louis actually suspects what’s going on between him and Zayn now. Louis is probably just teasing, maybe a bit jealous that Harry’s attention isn’t focused solely on him, like it used to be. Harry and Zayn have been careful, especially on the bus, and no one has ever seen anything that they shouldn’t have. Louis can’t have seen them do anything beyond the normal onstage groping and ball taps, and Harry’s sure Zayn hasn’t said anything to him. And Louis’ not, like, _magic_ or something; he can’t _know_. But he knows… he knows other stuff.

Knows that Zayn and Harry have never had a problem getting off with girls in the same room before. Knows that they’ve been disappearing together with increasing frequency after the shows end. And potentially most damning of all, Louis knows about that frantic crush Harry’d had on Aiden Grimshaw back in the X Factor house.

 

*****

 

Louis had tenderly dragged the truth out of a panicked, frustrated Harry one night after rehearsal, tented in a bottom bunk with extra sheets Louis had purloined from the rapidly emptying rooms surrounding them. They had ended rehearsal on a bad note that night. Harry had been on the verge of tears over a note he just couldn’t seem to hit, and Louis told him that he wasn’t allowing Harry to leave the newly-constructed Fort Tell-The-Truth until he told Louis what was really bothering him so much.

Once Harry had finally admitted that he was having something of an identity crisis over the way Aiden squeezed his shoulders and fixed his intense, hooded gaze on Harry whenever he spoke to him, Louis had spent the rest of the night petting at Harry’s hair, thumbing away his tears, and reassuring him that it was alright. That it was totally fine and completely normal that he liked both boys and girls, that Louis and everybody else would always love him just the same. But as the dawn began to peek around the edges of their makeshift curtains, Louis had persuaded him so expertly, so gently and so circumspectly that Harry barely realized he hadn’t reached this conclusion all on his own, that his current timing and situation were possibly not ideal for telling another boy that he fancied him for the very first time. Louis’ hand had never even stilled in Harry’s hair.

Now Harry worries that he and Zayn have been rumbled, that Louis can see straight through them. Because Louis can see everything, really, can read Harry like a book that he’s only sometimes interested in picking up. Inconveniently, he’s seemed much more interested in flipping through Harry’s pages lately.

 

*****

 

Louis’ renewed interest and shrewd gazes make things slightly more difficult, keeps Harry and Zayn that extra bit careful. For Harry it secretly adds an extra level of thrill- knowing that he’s getting away with something illicit and incredible right under everyone else’s noses. But it isn’t until Louis sees Zayn leaving Harry’s hotel room in the middle of the night that anything really changes.

At first, Harry doesn’t realize that anything’s happened; Zayn doesn’t tells him about running into Louis in the hall outside Harry’s room. Doesn’t tell him about how Louis had stared at him with narrowed eyes and said, “You’ll want to be careful with that, mate.” Doesn’t say much of anything at all, until it’s been over a month and Harry’s driven himself around the bend enough to bring it up himself.

He knows Zayn has been avoiding to him, has been clinging to the others, using them as human shields, side-stepping all Harry’s meek attempts to get him on his own.

Harry thinks at first that maybe Zayn is getting jealous when Harry occasionally takes girls back to his room, so he stops doing that. Not much of a sacrifice, if it’ll get Zayn to look at him again. But Zayn remains unmoved, doesn’t even seem to notice, really. His eyes continue to slide right past Harry when he enters a room, and Harry’s going mad with frustration.

And it’s not just that he misses getting off with Zayn; Zayn was always more than that. Was becoming Harry’s best friend, his confidant. While they never really talked about what was happening between them, anything else in the world was fair game. The way Zayn misses his family like a hole’s been carved out of his chest, the way he feels like everything the world thinks about him is so wrong that he might as well not exist at all. The way Harry wonders if everything he gave up was worth what he’s received in return, the way he wonders sometimes if it’s all a joke, if everyone’s been laughing at him all along. Harry’s terrified that he’s fucked it all up, that he’ll never have anyone who really hears him the way Zayn does again.

It comes to a head on a day off. Harry passes Niall on his way to the gym, and he knows for  a fact that Liam and Louis are out in the parking garage having a kickabout. That means that somewhere, Zayn is alone. Harry checks the busses because Zayn sometimes prefers to sleep in his bunk than share his hotel room, then the gym, even though Niall hadn’t said anything about Zayn joining him, and then every corner of the hotel bar.

Discouraged, Harry slowly makes his way back up to their floor, feet dragging against the plush carpet. He turns a corner and there, as if summoned by Harry’s own wild longing, is Zayn, a silver ice bucket clutched in his hands.

Zayn’s eyes widen minutely and flick over Harry’s shoulder, but there’s no one else to see. It’s just the two of them, silently facing each other down in a hotel hallway.

Zayn gives a small half-shrug with one shoulder.

“Alright, babes?”

Harry wants to roll his eyes, but he keeps his face impassive.

“Alright,” he responds slowly. “Got a mo?”

Zayn nods wordlessly, a bit stiff, and turns toward his hotel room door. He’s mostly been sharing with Liam lately, or else demanding that Louis trade him for the single.

Harry keeps his distance as Zayn fumbles with the key card. Ordinarily he’d be pressed up against Zayn’s back, running his hands down his stomach and breathing in his ear, but nothing about them has felt ordinary in weeks.

He follows Zayn into the room, latches the door behind himself and stands awkwardly by the bed as Zayn carefully tongs ice cubes into a tumbler beside the minibar.

Harry brings his hand to his mouth to chew anxiously at his cuticles while Zayn empties a small bottle over the ice and fills the glass the rest of the way with water from the tap. Zayn, it seems, is attempting to act entirely unaffected by Harry’s presence, but he has that extra awareness of his own body that comes with knowing you’re being watched. His shoulders are a little tight, the movements of his hands not as fluid as they usually are. Harry stays still, caught in the whirlwind of his own mind, trying to decide how to play this without scaring Zayn into kicking him out.

Harry is used to Zayn taking the lead, and he’s used to not talking about what they do together. Every instinct he has is telling him to keep quiet, that this feels all wrong, but he’s desperate to know what he did, to know why Zayn’s stopped so much as looking at him once they’re offstage.

Zayn continues to act entirely unbothered by Harry’s hovering presence and settles himself on the sofa, drink in hand. Harry gives a particularly vicious bite to the side of his index finger and rips away a bit more skin than he was intending. He hisses through his teeth and flaps his hand in the air in a futile attempt to ease the sting.

“Harry!” Zayn barks sharply, finally acknowledging Harry. “Stop picking yourself apart and come here.”

Harry dips his head down and makes his way to the sofa.

He settles down next to Zayn, and Zayn grabs his hand, turning it to look at the edge of his fingernail.

“For fuck’s sake, you’ve made yourself bleed.”

Harry stays quiet as Zayn takes the serviette wrapped around the bottom of his glass, damp with condensation, and swaddles Harry’s finger in it, squeezing gently to stop the bleeding. Every nerve ending in Harry’s body lights up at his touch and he focuses very hard on keeping his breathing normal.

The words come out before he’s ready.

“What did I do wrong?”

Harry hates the way his voice sounds- small and unsure. Zayn is one of the only people alive who can still make him feel this way.

Zayn whips his head up suddenly, almost colliding with Harry’s chin before catching his eye. What he sees there make him drop his gaze back to his own lap, where he’s got Harry’s finger clenched in his fist.

“What are you on about?”

Something snaps in Harry’s chest and he snorts a little.

“Come on, Zayn,” he begins, his voice stronger than it had been. “We haven’t hung out in weeks. You’ll barely speak to me. I just want to know what I did.”

Zayn keeps his head down, rhythmically squeezing Harry’s finger even though the bleeding has surely stopped by this point.

“You didn’t do anything, Harry; it’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like? It’s a bit late for a big gay freak-out, don’t you think?”

Zayn huffs out a laugh.

“That’s not it. I’m not gay, anyway,” Zayn says dismissively. “You’re the only bloke I’ve ever wanted to like… you know. Try stuff on. ‘S like you’re my exception or something. But Harry, you had to know we couldn’t keep on like that. It’d be like, a big deal if people found out. It’s not worth it.”

Not worth it. The words reach inside, twisting and burrowing and making a home under Harry’s ribs, stinging against his heart in sharp, toxic little pulses. Not worth it.

“Come on, Haz. Do you really want to have to answer questions about it for the rest of your life, when it’s just a bit of fun?”

“But… but no one knew. What changed? We were careful, no one was going to find out.”

Zayn laughs darkly.

“Someone already did, babes.”

Harry’s body goes electric with shock and he rips his hand away from Zayn’s.

“What are you talking about? How could anyone possibly find out? Jesus Christ, did you film us? I _told_ you-”

“It’s Louis,” Zayn says flatly. “Saw me coming out of your room one night.”

“What, and you just told him what you were doing in there?”

“Seems like he already knew, actually. Just looked at me and told me to be careful. They’re not stupid, Harry, and you’re not quite as smooth as you seem to think you are.”

“I still don’t see what the big deal is. Louis is- he already, like. Knows. About me.”

Zayn gives him a confused look, his eyebrows furrowed, then shakes his head quickly.

“I don’t want to do it anymore, Harry. It was fun and I’m glad you were up for it, but I don’t need anything else to worry about, do you know what I’m saying? It’s not like you’re hurting for action, anyway, are you?”

Zayn smiles and thumbs at the side of Harry’s face, trying to lighten the mood.

“You’ll have more time now, to devote to your adoring fans.”

Zayn knocks his elbow into Harry’s side and Harry forces his face into a smile that he fears looks more like a grimace. If this is how Zayn feels, if this is how easy it was for him to pretend Harry doesn’t exist, it’s better that he know it now. That he doesn’t let himself get any deeper when he’s clearly the only one who ever took any of it seriously.

Harry takes a deep breath, bracing himself before turning to face the full force of Zayn’s gaze.

“Okay… just, you don’t have to like, ignore me anymore. I’m not going to jump you in front of the other guys, you know. You’re just making it weirder.”

“Sorry, Harry. I just didn’t know how to… I don’t know. I’m sorry.” Zayn pats hesitantly at Harry’s knee. “We’re good now, yeah?”

Feeling utterly dismissed, Harry drops the napkin, now spotted with his blood, onto the coffee table and stands up. The world breaks apart beneath his feet and reforms. It looks the same, but Harry knows it’s different now.

“Yeah, of course," Harry lies. "We’re fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr post for fic is [here](http://ao3feed-zarry.tumblr.com/post/131473588612/up-for-it)


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